Narn i Chín Húrin
by nosmaeth
Summary: What inspires a man to write the longest poem (narn) ever written? What turns one's mind towards darkness and sorrow, while he lives at peace? This tale is about the creation of The Tale of the Children of Húrin, a song in the magnificent melody of Arda. Extended summary inside!
1. Chapter 1- Dírhavel

**Summary: This story is about the one time the longest Sindarin poem was ever performed, and about the man who composed it. There is not much known about him except that he lived at the Mouth of Sirion, nearing the end of the First Age.  
For the first chapter I would like to thank jjjanimefan1, the rest is "unbeataed". **

**Any sort of feedback would be much appreciated, but most importantly: enjoy!**

**Narn i Chín Húrin**

**Dírhavel**

All who now tread the white streets of Arvernien seemed fair and glowing. The children of Doriath and the refugees of Gondolin shined still, bearing either the first light of the Stars or the power of the Trees.  
The strength of the Silmaril that was taken from Melkor, seemed to disperse among them, radiate through them, as all were strong in mind and in body. Even the Edain, the Secondborn, seemed to live longer and healthier here than at any other place of Arda.  
And if a sense of fear, a strange foreboding of darkness yet to come, was sometimes upon them, they denied it even to themselves. All wished to believe the horrors were over, all wished to heal by the Sea and live happily and in peace.  
All save the restless mariners who yearned for the mystery of the distant blue horizon and could not linger on these shores for long. Amongst them was Earendil, son of Tuor leading not only elves who were filled with longing towards Aman, but some of the pure-hearted men who befriended the grandson of Beren.

And thus the Sea that tied them to the Mouth of Sirion with its soft sounds, clear smell and promises of peace, also lured them away and kept them on their guard, for on the distant shores, nameless shadows still lurked.  
Every now and then a ship would leave with the tide to seek adventures and glory. And the ones that returned told many tales indeed, tales of heroism and triumph.  
News would arrive that Earendil and his companions, Erellont, Aerandir and Falathar had slain the beast of Morgoth, Ungoliant the Great. Tales would speak of their strength and victory and yet Tuor's son remained wise and humble.

From the mainland different news came day by day; news of death and loss and horror, news of illness and darkness, but not many heeded them, not many believed them. In the light of the Silmaril, all seemed to grow and prosper, glory seemed to last forever and darkness was but a distant memory. save for the ones who sailed the Sea, for the ones who sought that darkness in hope of victory and conquer.

One child of the Edain however, had no such desire in his heart. Here the calm sound of the waves crushing, the warmth of the day and gentleness of the night caressed his soul and he did not wish to leave. His heart was never gladdened when hearing of battles from afar and doubts ate him constantly. He had little faith in the glory of the Noldor and even less trust in the existing peace.  
His mind looked not towards the future, but into the depth of history. Ever he sought knowledge of the time before his birth, ever he listened to the tales of the land, and especially tales of men before him.  
When the mariners would arrive, he would listen to their stories, but share not their triumphant thoughts. At their welcoming feasts he often warned them that war was far from over, that the peace could not last. The mariners did not find his company to their liking, for instead of praising their success, he deemed their adventures foolish. He often reminded them that the Feanorians were still alive, that they had to be prepared to protect what's theirs should the brothers come to fulfill their oath.  
They did not heed his words and soon started to avoid his company. The murder and loss were too recent of a memory in their heart and their soul refused to be reminded of them. They refused to accept the truth that the pain would arise yet again and that their sorrows would deepen still.

He did not mind the solitude, but the lack of respect and fear that all of them were headed towards a bitter end did grieve his soul. If not for Earendil himself, who still held him in high regard, he would not have had any company.  
All his attention was absorbed by scrolls and dark stories and pain. He would rarely come out by daylight; rather he spent all his time inside his small house by the sea. How he occupied himself there, the people knew not. He was tired like old men, unfriendly, grumpy and cynical. He cared for none and had no family or friends or guests. If he talked to anyone, it was the Mariner, but he visited him rarely as the tumult of Earendil's house bothered him.  
And though he was young, his soul aged fast, as if he were rushing towards an early end.


	2. Chapter 2- Elwing

**Elwing**

The Mariner was not home, he had left many months ago, and Elwing stayed with their twins, alone by the soft murmur of the Sea, to imagine the voice of her beloved into it. She had enough trouble on her mind as it was, so when her maid told her of Dírhavel's visit, she wished she could just ignore the unpleasant man. But Earendil asked her some years ago to befriend the strange Edain and she obeyed him as she always did, without question. Sorrow grasped her heart, anger rose in her tender spirit. How long was she to endure without him? What other tedious and painful orders was she to obey... But she quickly shook off those thoughts, banned them from her mind. Earendil never ordered her! He merely asked, and she would have done anything for him... She sighed. Thank the Valar that the children were sleeping at least!

_"Welcome!_" she smiled kindly at the man, who entered just now. How old he looked, how worn! Moved by sudden pity, she was just about to ask of his needs, when they were suddenly interrupted:  
_"Adar, Adar!"_ little Elrond entered the room, screaming frantically, eyes filled with tears. She reflexively cached her crazed son, who - as she came to understand a while ago - did not even wake up when he did this. As of late these terrified panic attacks were becoming all too often. At least he did not disturb Elros this time...  
_"Hush child_!" she took him in her arms. _"Hush child, all is well. Father is not home."_

Elrond sobbed a little still, but his fear passed, and his dreams must have slowly returned to other, more pleasant paths, for a small smile appeared on his lips. It always happened like that, he run and screamed without waking up, and calmed down without waking up, and she could only guess the nightmares he had, for he remembered none of it when he rose in the morning... He was perhaps a little too old for such horror dreams in his sixth year of life... But that could not be changed.  
_"Forgive this, friend! They miss their father deeply, I am afraid!"_  
_"So do I"_ answered Dírhavel and his voice was unusually soft and understanding. _"There is nothing to forgive, my Lady."_

She smiled tiredly, but she could not help feeling a little annoyed at him... What did he know of missing Earendil? How could he tell her about missing him?! They were talking about her very own husband for the Valar! But she knew she was being unreasonable and once again she tried to contain herself. Usually she was effortlessly kind, but today she felt exhausted and weary to her bones.  
_"How can I help you, Dírhavel?"_  
_"You have already helped, Lady. I know how tedious my presence is to you. I would not bother you much longer."_  
_"Have I offended you?_" she asked, taken aback.  
_"Nay, my Lady. But I can tell when I am not wanted. I know the signs, they are familiar. I shall not rob you of your precious time. I only ask one favor of you..."_  
_"Please go on!_" She said calmly, wondering what the strange man would ask of her.  
_"Let me come to the feast after the harvest!_"

She stared at him. It was not as if they did not invite him to feasts before, they did, countless times... And he always refused!  
"It would be our pleasure!" She smiled generously. Earendil will be happy for him, he might even come home by the time; the celebration was set on the coming Orgilion. He shall be proud of her!  
_"Thank you, Lady!_" The man bowed deeply and was about to leave. But before he reached the door, Elwing found herself asking the question:  
_"Why?_"  
He stared for a minute, lost in thought, then shrugged.  
_"Why, to sing of course!_" and he snorted and frowned like he usually did, whenever he thought a question silly.


	3. Chapter 3- Children of Húrin

**Children of Húrin**

Earendil did not come home by the time. The grapes could not contain their sweet nectar any longer, the vines lurched, dazed by the heat of the late Autumn sun, the leaves turned dry and blood-red, and he still did not come back.

Elwing stood by the open window of her room and breathed in the scent of the sea. His smell. Clear, like his eyes and his heart. The sea-wind had been her consolation in her solitude, in its sounds she heard the soothing voice of her husband, in its smell she breathed him in, in its touch she felt his caress.  
She sighed deeply and turned away. The wife of Earendil had ocean-deep worry to conceal, smiles to force, songs to sing; she had a feast to attend to.  
Elwing reached for the Silmaril, and the stone felt smooth and cool against her fingers. Raising her chin defiantly, she put it on herself even though tonight it felt so very heavy. But before facing the tedious tasks of hosting the ceremonial feast, she slipped into the bedroom of her twins. She kissed their brows and whispered her love to them, stroking their faces with fingers as soft as the fluttering wings of the wilwarins* that brought sweet dreams to children...

The hall was crowded with men and elves, mariners and farmers alike, coming from all around Arvernien. The huge windows were opened and the salty wind that blew from the sea, whirled the smell of wine out, replacing it with cool, clear air. Soft music and loud laughter could be heard from quite a distance, but outside everything else was silent as the grave. The lamps flickered in the fresh breath of the west and Elwing braced herself, for Dírhavel now rose from his seat, golden lyre in his hands. He stared at her expectantly, though in his gaze she saw something else, something unsettling; a familiar yet foreign longing. She stood up herself, and the hall quieted.  
_"Esteemed guests of our house, allow me to present you the next performer! He is a good friend of my husband, and tonight he shall delight us with his songs!"_  
She spoke generously, but Dírhavel shook his head, eyes grave and sad.  
_"The Lady Elwing does not speak the truth, dear guests. I sing only one song and it shall not delight your heart, I am afraid."_  
He sat in front of the fireplace and all the guest stared in wonder, for never before had an Edain dared to sing in front of the Elven folk. The salty wind seemed to grow somewhat stronger; the candle lights danced desperately in the sudden silence, fighting a hopeless battle for their lives.

And then he struck the chords.  
He sang of Túrin, and the mortals sighed. He sang of Doriath, and crystal tears glistened in the eyes of the Sindar. He sang of the curse, and the Noldor cried, for they remembered their own fate, the prophecy of Mandos...  
And at last all of them wept, for such was his talent and his skill with his song, and such was the pain and sadness of Arda. Their hearts could not contain the sorrow any longer, it poured freely, like blood from a wound reopened.  
And as he sang, they all became children of Húrin, cursed forever, doomed to greatness and sadness beyond the measure of their own minds. The candle lights gave up one by one, but no one cared to give life to them.

He still sang when cries disturbed the hallow silence of his art, he still sang as the lifeless corpses of the slaughtered guards grew cold. He sang as long as he was to sing, until his tale ended in bitter pain and a new tale with new pain arrived on the winds of the sea.  
As he sung his very last notes, as he played his very last chords, the maddened sons of Feanor entered the hall. He took no notice of them, frozen like a cruel marble sculpture, motionless in the delirious, terrified chaos and bloodshed. Not until they reached for her.  
He had no weapons, no skill, means to stop the fury of Maedhros, but he stood in front of him nonetheless.  
For the one he ever loved, but could never have. For the one who was whiter and purer than the very light of Varda that shone from her breast.  
He did not hope, such foolishness was not in his nature, but he still defended her, against all reason.

The golden lyre was not enough to protect its master from the deadly blow. Dírhavel stared numbly at the redness of the spilling blood that colored his instrument, and he staggered, dazed by the sudden hotness he felt.  
As he fell, the lyre sang one last time; and he saw a little white bird flying from its strings out to the sea, with the last breath that flew from his very own mouth.  
And he sang no more.

* * *

*_wilwarin=butterfly_


End file.
